Jump, Grasshopper
by Gabriel87
Summary: After witnessing a hit by an elusive assassin, Christine goes into protective custody. But when she is placed into the care of a mysterious masked man, she wonders - is she truly safe? E/C, Modern. Leroux based, some Kay.
1. Chapter 1

The girl sat alone, hunched in a peeling metal chair, her head jerking robotically as she fought off exhaustion. Her blonde hair hung in haphazard loops, her hairpins slipping from position. A pair of scuffed high heels, long since abandoned, was neatly tucked away under the rungs.

Nadir frowned at the girl's bare feet, which were resting gently against the freezing concrete floor. Didn't anyone have the sense to give the poor child some slippers?

There was a gray blanket, at least, draped around her shoulders for warmth.

A closer glance, however, proved it to be matted and covered with pills, and his nose began to twitch with the smell of mothballs.

The most important witness in over twenty years, and nobody even thought to give her a good blanket!

Nadir cleared his throat.

"Miss Daae?"

The girl's head jerked back, and she blinked rapidly before turning to face him.

For a moment, Nadir's breath caught in his throat. Her eyes were the most exquisite shade of blue, and so wide...

But she was shaking, and her skin was white as death.

"Forgive me, Miss Daae. I see that I've startled you - "

"Oh, it's...oh. Really. It's fine..." her voice trailed off, and her eyes began to wander around the room.

Nadir was no fool, and he could see the symptoms of shock written plainly on her face.

Had Rookheya been there she would have insisted on scalding tea with milk and sugar, and probably a hot foot bath.

This being America, Nadir knew without asking that there would be no tea in the building. Police headquarters were like that. Still, they had next best thing - hot coffee, and plenty of it.

He gently laid his slim brown hand on her shoulder, and the shaking seemed to lessen.

"Miss Daae, I don't think I have ever seen a person more in need of a warm drink in all of my life. Please follow me and we should have coffee in under two minutes. Do you take milk or sugar?"

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly before she found her voice. "I usually take it black, actually. Mr...er..."

"Kahn. Nadir Kahn." He smiled and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I've never known a young lady to drink coffee black! If you'd permit a little friendly advice, I think the additional ingredients might be good for you at the moment. My wife always said it was a sovereign remedy for nerves."

She managed a small smile. "Your wife says that?"

"It's an ancient cure all. It couldn't hurt, could it?" Nadir pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and dialed. "Sergeant? Yes. We'll be starting in a moment, but could we get some coffee in here? Oh, and we need some shoes - slippers, rather. Yes. The indoor kind. Great."

Nadir tucked the phone away before turning again to his companion. She was on her feet now, still shrouded in the horrible blanket, her little shoes clasped in her hand.

Though still pale, her beautiful blue eyes were growing steady and clear.

"I'm ready to go, Mr. Kahn. The interview room, right?"

He nodded silently, and she smiled.

"Ok. I know the way by now. Let's get on with it, shall we?"

She shuffled forward, and Nadir followed.

The first witness in over twenty years. They were really quite lucky. It was truly a miracle that she was alive...

_Ah,_ said a small voice, _but can we keep her that way?_


	2. Chapter 2

Raoul de Chagney was fidgeting.

He shuffled the papers in front of him, then unshuffled them. He popped the cap from his pen to write a note, then seconds later thought better of it and snapped it back into place.

Anything to distract him from the monstrous apparition seated next to him!

He found himself scrutinizing the most minute details of the room with unusual vigor...at least, the details to his right. There was a hairline split in the plaster wall about halfway to the ceiling. Dust, too - lots of dust - it was layered especially thick on the frame of the one-way viewing window they were seated behind. There was even - ick - a dead spider in the corner of the pane, its brittle legs curled tightly into its abdomen.

With helpless horror, Raoul found his gaze sliding back to the man on his left.

He tried to study him discreetly, using only his peripheral vision. The details were blurred and watery, but it was clear the man was dressed in black.

All black.

From top to bottom.

Literally.

The corners of Raoul's eyes itched as he fought the urge to gawk.

The man hadn't said a word so far. He simply tapped his pencil against the wood laminate table.

_Tap-tapa-tap-tappity-tap_...

The rhythm was irregular and jarring and made Raoul's skin crawl.

For the briefest second, he allowed himself a moment of self pity. When Raoul thought of how happy he had been not ten minutes before!

He had been _thrilled_ to earn this assignment. Until now, his budding career as a close-protection officer had been embarrassingly easy. While his fellow graduates were out debugging top secret conferences or leading motorcades in stealthy black limousines, Raoul's duties consisted almost exclusively of escorting aging politicians' wives to dinner.

Mind you, the work wasn't _bad_...the ladies loved his charming, dimpled smile and his glossy, shoulder length hair. They fussed over him and pretended to flirt. Raoul enjoyed their little attentions, and of course, reveled in the gourmet dining and expensive venues. Still, he had recently begun to feel that his profession lacked something of the _dash_ that had originally appealed to him.

When he received the news - that he, Raoul de Chagney, had been selected as the security detail for a witness to a murder, he wanted to skip! _Phillipe must have pulled some strings,_ he thought. The thought depressed him, but only for a moment.

Nothing could dampen the sense of adventure that danced in his boyish heart.

_Nothing but this!_

There was a particularly sharp strike of the pencil, and Raoul's arms spasmed so violently that they knocked several papers to the floor.

"Something the matter, boy?"

Raoul nearly fainted as his stomach turned to ice. That _voice!_

Raoul turned to him, eyes wide, some especially terse words forming in his mouth...

...until he saw the pencil, lazily twirling between two skeletal fingers, the sharpened silver point glinting under the fluorescent lights.

"N-no. No sir."

"Ah! Glad to hear it."

Raoul felt his cheeks grow hot, and he quickly bent down to retrieve the fallen papers.

The man watched him patiently.

"I'm not, by any chance, making you _uncomfortable_, am I, Chagney?"

Raoul's head began to pound as he stretched for the last stray sheet.

"Er, it's...de Chagney. Actually. Um, sir."

The man said nothing and continued to twirl the pencil.

"Heh, never mind...ah, no. No sir. I'm not uncomfortable."

The man shrugged, with a motion so smooth and sinuous Raoul wondered if he had imagined it.

"Perhaps its the assignment," he said, his tone soothing and resonant. "It's an important case...quite high profile...do you truly feel that a mere ten months as a modern day Beau Brummell has prepared you?"

Raoul's pulse quickened with anger. "I am a fully credentialed close-protection officer!" he said, wincing at the shrill in his voice. "I can handle whatever situation the government decides to throw at me!"

The man gently raised his hands.

"Hush, boy. I apologize if I hurt your feelings. Gather your wits now, they'll be entering any minute."

Raoul suspected he was being mocked, but he decided to busy himself by alphabetizing the papers in front of him.

The man gave it a minute or two before resuming the tap of his pencil. It was a rather lively, modernist syncopation that he had been toying with for some time...

...how satisfying for an opportunity to combine work with pleasure.

Even now, his mouth twitched upwards under his mask as he observed the boy's hands clench until they turned white.


	3. Chapter 3

There were only two things of any note in the interview room. The first was a gray formica table, sporting several impressive gouges and leaning slightly on one leg.

The second was a mirror that paneled the entire left wall.

Nadir escorted the girl to her seat at the formica table before pouring coffee. Some rumpled pink packets of sweetener had been scattered over the table. They went untouched.

The girl gave a quick glance toward the mirror.

"Is someone behind there?" she asked quietly.

Nadir took a sip of coffee. "Just some administrators, nothing to interfere with us. Now then. Shall we begin?"

He fished a small recorder out of his pocket, setting it casually to the side before switching it on.

He crossed his fingers and leaned forward.

"If you would please state your name for the record."

The girl bent her head toward the recorder.

"Um. My name is Christine Daae."

"Thank you. Witness is being interviewed by Nadir Kahn in his capacity as agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation -"

"Wait," said Christine. "Federal Bureau...you mean you're from the FBI?"

Nadir smiled. "As you say, the FBI."

Christine's eyes grew wide.

He shrugged. "It's a living."

Christine barked out a nervous laugh, then instantly clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Now then, Miss Daae - I am going to ask you to repeat your story. I know that you have already told it several times tonight to the police, but it is vital that we have our own record of it. Now then. You were going to the theatre this evening?" He rustled through his files. "The Criterion Theatre?"

"Yes," she said quietly.

"What time was this?"

"Eleven, I think. Thereabouts, anyway."

Nadir made a note.

"You had an appointment with a Mr. Joseph Buquet, correct?"

"That's right."

"Mr. Buquet was a theatrical agent - you were auditioning for a part?"

"Not exactly. Mr. Buquet - Joe, we called him - was considering representing me generally. I was going to perform some of my repertoire."

Nadir's brow creased as he studied the papers in front of him. "Repertoire? As in singing? I thought I understood you to be an actress."

A brief smile flashed across Christine's face. "It's musical theatre, Mr. Kahn...we sing, we dance...we do a little bit of everything. But singing is my own special talent."

"Ah."

There was a lull as Mr. Kahn reached into his breast pocket for reading glasses.

"Seems like an _unusual_ time to audition, so late at night."

Christine blushed.

"You don't find that unusual, Miss Daae?"

"It's - it's the theatrical world, Mr. Kahn," she said weakly. "Lots of people have strange schedules..."

She gazed into the depths of her coffee mug, swirling it gently in her hand. Nadir frowned.

"Miss Daae. I do not appreciate coyness during an official interview. I will ask you directly - was there more to this meeting than a mere audition?"

"Mr. Kahn." Her voice was very quiet. "I live in a one room studio. I love singing, truly, and I devote every minute I can to it. But I can only pay the bills by waitressing at a bar. It is tough, grungy work, and the patrons are insulting and abusive. I have no family, and if I'm honest, no friends either. There's nobody - _nobody_ - to help me but myself."

She wrapped her hands around the porcelain coffee cup, her fingers pressing into the sides until her nail beds turned white.

"I want to be clear about something, Mr. Kahn. I would give anything to leave my job, to sing on stage and to follow my dreams. I would _actually_ cut off my limbs if I thought it meant a better chance. Joe had seen me at a recent production at a dingy little theatre a couple of blocks from my place. He took me out for coffee, and he said I had talent. If I'm honest I...I knew what he had on his mind...but God! It was just so _nice_ to have someone say something kind for a change!"

"As for our meeting at the Criterion. Would I have...thrown myself on the sword, so to speak, to get ahead? No. But I also wasn't going to go out of my way to...to _alienate_ Joe - Mr. Buquet. He was in a position to help me, and I _wasn't_ in a position to refuse that blindly."

Christine took a forceful sip of coffee, but had a violent coughing spasm as it spilled down her throat.

Nadir handed her a handkerchief.

"So...you went to the Criterion at eleven to meet with Mr. Joseph Buquet. What happened next?"

Christine clasped the blanket closer.

"I went in through the main entrance - Joe told me he would leave the doors open for me. I had no problem getting in, but the locks were all scratched up. It bothered me at the time, but the Criterion has a sort of old fashioned, bohemian style, so I figured it was part of the decor."

She shook her head. "Now that I realize...God! The scratches were too shiny, I should have known they were fresh - "

"You couldn't possibly have guessed, Miss Daae. You mustn't blame yourself. Please, continue. You went inside?"

"Yes..." she said vaguely. "I - I actually got a little lost at first. I was looking for the basement, but there were so many halls. It was dark, too. There were only a few lights - just some wall sconces, really - and everything smelled like old wood. I think the paneling has mold..." she stated quietly. " Is there a way we could contact the manager? I really don't think mold is safe - "

Nadir smiled.

"Miss Daae, I assure you that I take your concerns very seriously. However, if we could...?"

Christine sighed. "Yes. Like I said, I wandered around for awhile. I think I found every room _but_ the one I was looking for. There were dressing rooms, a warm up room for dancers - a prop room, too. It was full of wonderful old stuff. Lots of gilt statues, racks of costumes and even some old equipment from a magic act. Please Mr. Kahn," she said, "I know you're getting impatient, but this is important!"

Nadir realized, with a little embarrassment, that he had been drumming his fingers on the table. He clasped his hands in front of him.

"I found the basement stairs at last, and they led me to this long, dark hallway. One of the light bulbs was flickering. Joe's office was at the end. I was feeling really jumpy by this time, but I walked toward the door. That's when I started to - to hear it."

There was several seconds pause.

"What did you hear, exactly, Miss Daae?"

She swallowed.

"I - I don't even know how to - it was like - like coughing. No, that's - that's not right. It was a _voice_...definitely a person's voice."

"Was this voice saying something?"

"No!" Christine shouted, tears suddenly springing to her eyes. "No, no words, only lots of cracks and breaks - _animal noises_. That's it. It sounded like an animal. An animal in _pain_."

Her own voice was cracking, and though the tears in her eyes did not fall, her nose and cheeks were red from the effort to hold them in.

Nadir gave her a moment, before gently placing his hand on her own. She looked at it curiously, as if surprised to see it there.

"I'm sorry Mr. Kahn," she said, her voice alternately strained and breathy. "I'm so sorry! I had no trouble telling the police what happened before -"

"It is quite simple, Miss Daae," he said kindly. "Your shock is wearing off. This is excellent news, truly! Your health is recovering. You have nothing to be ashamed of, child. Now," he practically whispered. "You are almost done. I promise that once you finish telling your story to me, you will never have to speak of it again."

She nodded, taking a great, shuddering intake of breath and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I heard the - the noises. Naturally, I was alarmed. I think I - I shouted. Yes. 'Joe! Joe, what's wrong?' Something like that. Anyway. The door wasn't locked so I - just - opened it."

Her voice cracked again, and it took her several seconds to regain control of it.

"Mr. Buquet was hanging in the air. For a moment I thought he was a scarecrow - just hanging there, swinging. He was held up by a rope around his neck. A noose. Oh, Mr. Kahn...he was still alive! God save me...the man was alive, and he was...smiling."

"Smiling?"

"Dammit! Yes! He was _smiling!_" she shouted. "At least, I thought so at first! His mouth was pulled back like a grin, only his upper lip kept twitching, snarling like a dog..."

"Those were the noises you heard?"

"Yes," she said, tears streaming freely at this point. "Yes, Joe was making those noises. Even with him hanging there by his neck, they forced his way out of his mouth like he was some goddamn _bagpipe_..."

She wept, and Nadir, somewhat self-consciously, patted her hand.

"Anyway...I just stared at him, and he stared at me, and then I looked down at the other end of the rope."

Nadir felt his breath catch.

"There was a man. A horrible man, all dressed in black. I think I must have taken him by surprise, when I opened the door - he hadn't made a move toward me. But the moment I looked at him, he dropped the rope. I could hear Joe hit the floor - it sounded hard - but I had already turned to run."

"I ran up the stairs, down one hall, then another. He was right behind me. I was trying to find my way back to the entrance, but the stupid thing is that I had no idea where it was. The whole place, the Criterion, is like a giant maze. I kept running by the same halls - or maybe they were different - I have no idea."

"Finally, I had gained a little on him. I had just enough time to find a hiding place. I saw the prop room - the one I told you about. You remember the magic equipment? There were a bunch of Chinese folding screens, and a big red lacquer cabinet. I think it's the one used for vanishing acts. It was just the right size for a person, and I had just put my hand on the knob when I saw the box they use for sawing ladies in half. I don't know what led me to hide there instead...I guess it just seemed less obvious. I climbed in, dropped the lid on myself, got my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. I told them where I was - the lady got mad at me for whispering. Then I just waited."

"I don't know how long I was alone. It felt like forever. But then, I heard the door to the prop room open. It was him."

"I think he just..._stood_ there for awhile, trying to figure out if I was there. I remember praying to God that my phone wouldn't ring, that the police wouldn't call me back and reveal my hiding place...I heard him walk towards me. He was actually standing right by me."

"I almost screamed when I heard the gunshots. They were right next to my ear. I think the only reason I didn't was shock. I found out later that he had shot six rounds into the vanishing cabinet...I...I nearly fainted when I saw. The bullets went right through to the wall."

"Right at that moment, I heard sirens, and lots of running and doors slamming. I guess that's when the police arrived. I heard the man run out of the room...even after he left I couldn't move. I didn't even understand how to get out of the box. When the cops finally found me, I was mumbling to myself, clutching my cell phone so tight they couldn't even get it out of my hands."

Christine fell silent, and Nadir's pulse was racing. He finally found his voice.

"We come to the most important part, Miss Daae...can you give us a description of this man? Tall or short? Fat or thin?" He gulped. "His face?"

Christine turned to him, her face clouded in confusion. "I thought you knew, Mr. Kahn...he was wearing a mask!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hello! I just wanted to say thank you to all of you wonderful reviewers out there! You have no idea just how much it means to me - unless you also write fanfiction, in which case you do :) Also, my apologies for the lateness and shortness of this chapter. All I can say is that, sometimes, life likes to punjab you, no? I should have kept my hand to the level of my eyes!**

Raoul leapt from his seat with sudden, startling force, causing the metal legs of his folding chair to whine against the concrete floor.

His companion winced.

"My God!" whispered Raoul. "My _God!"_

"Found religion?" asked the masked man.

"I - what? No! That girl!" Raoul pointed vigorously through the viewing window to the interview room. "I _know_ her! Christine - Christine Daae!"

The man glanced at his file. "Bravo, Chagney. That is, indeed, her name."

"You don't understand," said Raoul, sinking into his chair. "I knew her, _years_ ago...we were both kids...it was in St. Tropez..."

"The French Riviera? Enviable."

Raoul gazed dreamily at the ceiling.

"Yes...I was staying with my brother, Philippe...she was there with her father. He had been hired for the summer, for the hotel orchestra...he was a violinist, I think. They got free lodgings. We played all summer. To tell the truth, I...I was in love with her... "

The pencil, which had been twirling through the man's fingers, jerked from his grasp and hit the table with a clatter.

"Chagney," he said quietly, "this is no time to lose your head over a girl. Look, they've already started recording the interview! Drink this - it will evidently have to do in lieu of a _cold shower_."

The man slid a bottle of water across the table and into Raoul's hands.

Raoul cracked off the plastic top and drank deeply, his eyes fixed on his lovely childhood friend.

Such was his distraction, he didn't think to wonder why there had been no bottle of water before.

...

Raoul alternately chewed on his fingers and groaned throughout most of Christine's story. The poor girl! To think of all that she had been through, and all alone!

He shook his head at the description of her poverty.

He moaned when Christine described the grisly execution.

When Christine described the killer's mask, Raoul gasped and instinctively turned to look at the man next to him.

"Chagney," said the man smoothly, "if you do not cease gawping at me in the next two seconds, I will gouge your eyes out with a fork and feed them to piranhas."

Raoul wisely decided to occupy his attention elsewhere.

What better, he decided, than to make careful observation of the woman in front of him?

He found himself warming to the task with pleasure. Her hair was still the same delicate shade of blonde that he remembered, the color that had seemed so inseparable from the shell studded shorelines of St. Tropez. And her eyes! Those wondrous blue eyes. Bluer and fiercer than the warm, glittering waves that had washed over them as the played...

Of course, other things _had_ changed.

Her eyes, while still beautiful, were hollow. Not just from the trauma of the evening, Raoul guessed. The expression seemed set, as if it had been there for quite some time now...

But not all of the changes were bad. For one thing, Christine had developed a remarkably curvaceous figure. Though not _strictly_ the height of fashion, (indeed, many of the sparrow-like nymphs of his acquaintance would have snickered behind their hands), it was undeniably attractive.

He was to be with her again in mere minutes, to protect her from the nameless, faceless evil that threatened her.

Her knight in shining armor...

Raoul smiled. What a wonderful profession Philippe had chosen for him!


	5. Chapter 5

Nadir was conflicted.

His veins thrummed with adrenaline and triumph, and his hunter's instinct ached to begin the manhunt for a murderer.

And yet...

He stared at the screen of his phone, at the silent letters etched over the surface.

_She has seen our man._

For the girl's sake, he wished that he could erase it. With that one line her fate was sealed.

...

Nadir pecked out a message, suppressing his habitual grudge that his aged, rheumatic thumb was expected to skip over the keys like a ballerina.

_What do you want me to do?_

He hit send, and letters almost instantly pierced through to him in reply.

_Explain, idiot._

Nadir sighed.

He saw that Christine had largely recovered her composure - the red in her eyes was the only sign of her recent hysteria. She was quietly sipping her coffee.

Waiting.

He arranged his face into its most sympathetic expression and plunged boldly on.

"Miss Daae, you have been through a...most traumatic evening..."

Her lips pursed, and Nadir cringed at his statement of the obvious.

"But there is something we must explain," he went on. "You have not witnessed, if you'll excuse the term, an _ordinary murder_. We believe that the man you have described is an assassin."

Christine's hands clenched. "An assassin?"

_"The_ assassin, really. A remarkably efficient killer, wanted in over twenty two countries. He is called Rictus. His alias springs from the, er, peculiar facial deformations he leaves on his victims-"

"'Deformations?" she asked in a hollow voice. "What do you mean?"

"Simply that. His victims are easily identified by the grin that becomes frozen over their mouths." He began to warm to his pet topic. "It's a form of paralysis, actually. Risus sardonicus. The muscles enter into a sort of slow, controlled spasm, much as you observed with Mr. Buquet..."

Nadir's voice trailed off as he saw that Christine was turning colors. Perhaps now was not the moment for science.

"Er, yes...moving on. The point, Miss Daae, is that Rictus is cunning, slippery, and ruthless. Unfortunately, we cannot escape the fact that he has spotted _you_."

The blood had now drained so completely from Christine's face that she was as white as the plaster wall behind her.

Nadir smiled sadly. "There has never, not _once_, been a witness to place him at the scene of the crime. He has simply...never allowed it to happen. You are a remarkably lucky girl, Miss Daae."

The remarkably lucky girl seemed to be shrinking before his eyes.

"We need you, Miss Daae. And, to be frank...you need us."

Christine nodded, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"What do I need to do?"

...

"We're going to be placing you into protective custody."

She jumped, and the blanket slid from her shoulders.

_"Protective custody?"_ she squeaked. "I'm going to have to stay in _jail?"_

"Heaven forbid!" said Nadir, smiling. "Nothing quite so bleak as that! We are, after all, the FBI. You will be receiving the red carpet treatment, I assure you."

He quickly thumbed through a file.

"You will be put into hiding. In addition to delivering you to a secure location, you will be assigned a protections officer-"

"What's a protections officer?"

"A body guard."

For a moment her eyes went wide, until she burst into a fit of laughter.

Nadir hesitated as the spasms of laughter continued. "Er, Miss Daae?"

She wiped moisture from her eyes with the pads of her fingers, her hysterics making her breathing heavy and irregular.

"A body guard - me! Mr. Kahn, this is just...it's ridiculous!"

"I can assure you that it is _not_ ridiculous, Miss Daae. Did I not promise the red carpet treatment?"

"I suppose," she said, grinning. "All right. When do I get to meet this Lancelot you're assigning to me?"

Nadir waved to the mirror on the wall.

"Come in," he shouted. "We're ready for you!"


	6. Chapter 6

As Nadir waved the bodyguard in, Christine felt the bottom of her stomach drop.

With panic, she realized that her hair hung in limp strands around her face, and her face itself felt hot and splotchy from tears. Embarrassed, she stared down at her lap, only to see that she was wrapped in the ugliest blanket this side of the 19th century.

She groaned. What a way to meet her knight in shining armor!

All too soon, the door burst open.

Christine raised her eyes shyly...then stared with open interest.

There, in a glossy ponytail and slick pinstripe suit, stood the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

...

"Christine!"

She choked on her breath, blindsided by the smiling Adonis who seemed so oddly familiar...

Until a sudden image of a bronze, laughing boy playing in the sun ricocheted through her brain like a bullet.

_"...Raoul?"_

Raoul's grin stretched from ear to perfect ear.

"It's been _years!_ Too, too long, Christine!"

He reached out a golden hand, which Christine took, eyes wide with disbelief.

Nadir frowned. "You two know each other?"

"Yes sir, we're old childhood friends! Christine and I spent several summers together...I've never forgotten her."

Christine grinned sheepishly and tried to hide her pink cheeks behind her hands.

"Raoul," she whispered, "I - I don't understand...what on earth are you _doing_ here?"

Raoul cocked his head to one side.

"You don't - oh! I'm forgetting myself. Let me give you my card. Maybe that will explain-"

He flicked open a silver case and gallantly held it out. She separated one from the lot and squinted at the curving font.

"Raoul de Chagney," she read, "Protections Officer, Federal Bureau of Investigations..._you're_ going to be my body guard?"

Raoul's face turned equally pink, but his platinum smile never dimmed.

"I am! Miss Daae, please allow me to be your body guard for the evening." He bowed, and Christine laughed delightedly. "I'm going to devote my life to you, until this fiend is caught and you can live in peace once more, dear Christine!"

Nadir coughed forcefully, but Christine stood from her chair, eyes sparkling.

"Will you? Will you really? Oh _Raoul-"_

Nadir suddenly struck the table with his fist.

"Mr. De Chagney! Miss Daae. I'm afraid...this is _highly_ irregular. Mr. De Chagney, if you know this girl, you really must remove yourself from the case- "

Christine spun around.

"What is wrong with Raoul, Mr. Kahn?" she snapped. "I know Raoul! I've known him for _years_...he just said it himself! If someone really is trying to kill me, then I want my bodyguard to be someone I can _trust!"_

Raoul's face turned even redder, and he dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Miss Daae," said Nadir through clenched teeth, "there are protocols to consider. We have strict policies in place that prohibit this sort of thing, and for good reason! Personal acquaintances are all well and good, but when your life is on the line-"

"When _my_ life is on the line, I want my friends standing by me!"

"It is simply not_ done_, Miss Daae! I _cannot_ allow personal distractions to compromise your safety!"

"But Mr. Kahn!"

"Miss Daae-"

His words were cut off by the chirp of his phone. Nadir dug into his pocket with a muttered oath, flipping open the phone with a snap.

He scowled as he read the message.

_This entire discussion is beside the point. The boy is ill and unfit for service._

Nadir glanced up at Raoul with confusion, then instantly leapt to his feet.

_"Allah!"_ he shouted. "What on earth _happened?"_

For Raoul was now as red and damp as a steamed lobster, trembling and muttering incoherently.

Nadir raced to his side, catching him under the arm just as his knees gave way.

_"Raoul?"_ Christine shrieked.

He was breathing heavily, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"You need a doctor, Mr. De Chagney...there's a room across the hall. Come on now - "

"Let me help you, Mr. Kahn-"

_"No!"_ he said abruptly. "Miss Daae, you are to _stay here_. I do not like this. Do not leave this room until other arrangements have been made."

The swooning boy suddenly held out his hand.

"Chris...Christine..."

Christine clasped it desperately, ignoring the slick layer of sweat that had suddenly bloomed in his palms.

"Hush, Raoul!" she whispered. "Go with Mr. Kahn! I'll be fine."

"The water..."

"We'll get you water," said Nadir, grunting under his weight. "Just come _on."_

They trooped into the hall, the door slamming behind them.

...

Christine stared at the door, her ears ringing with the abrupt silence.

She sank into her chair, grabbed her coffee and drained it in one gulp.

_What on earth just happened?_

...

Christine was staring at the brown residue pooled at the bottom of her coffee cup, wondering vaguely if she was expected to clean it.

She wasn't sure how long she had been left alone in the interrogation room, but it felt like days.

She yawned. _All I want to do is go to sleep!_

There was a click, and a buzz. The air seemed to be full of static, but it was difficult to tell whether it was outside or inside her own brain.

She glanced around curiously.

_"Miss Daae."_

For a brief moment, Christine simply forgot how to breathe. _That voice!_

It was a rich, masculine voice, laced with such a tantalizing mixture of authority and warmth that she felt her skin tingle...

_"Miss Daae..."_

The edge of irritation brought her back down to earth, and she realized someone was speaking over the intercom. She turned a fiery shade of red.

"H-hello?"

"Good evening, Miss Daae." said the electric voice. "Or, rather, good morning."

"Uh...thanks. You too."

With a start, Christine realized she was no longer in her chair. Her feet had led her unconsciously closer to the intercom, the better to hear the luscious voice through the hiss of static.

She was standing directly in front of in the two way mirror.

Christine stared at her dim, grey reflection and wondered if the voice was on the other side.

"Miss Daae," it said, "it is clear that Mr. De Chagney is temporarily indisposed. I am afraid that we must take Mr. Kahn's suggestion and devise a new plan... therefore, if you have no objection, I will take over as your protections officer for now."

Christine nodded, carried along as much by his tone as by his words. She would have agreed to go to Timbuktu if he had asked.

"If you would care to meet me by the back entrance?"

Hold that thought.

"The...back entrance?" asked Christine. "Are you sure?"

His voice grew sharp.

"I am not in the custom, Miss Daae, of parading my charges around through the public when there is a maniac on the loose. _The back entrance_."

She nodded again, feeling hurt and punished. She simply wanted the sweet voice to come back.

He gave her the directions, repeating them until she knew them like a catechism.

"Five minutes, Miss Daae." It was a dismissal.

"Wait!" she said, raising her hands and pressing them desperately against the glass.

"Yes, Miss Daae?"

She was silent for a moment...all she had really wanted to do was to stop the voice from leaving her.

"How...how will I know it's you?"

There was a soft, purring chuckle, and she shivered.

"You'll know."

There was a click, and the voice was gone.

...

In a daze, Christine followed his directions. Down the stairs...down a dimly lit hall...she only vaguely noticed that the circuitous route took her out of the way of any other people. It was just as well, she thought with a blushing smile. There was only one person she wanted to meet just now.

She reached the darkened fire exit, and Christine stood there, waiting.

One minute. Two minutes.

Five minutes.

The drug-like effect of the voice was wearing off, and she found herself growing jumpy.

Where was he?

The directions had been rather strange...had she misunderstood?

_"Miss Daae," _whispered a voice in her ear, as she felt the gentle pressure of fingers on her shoulder.

Her stomach surged with electricity and she turned, ready to greet the angel, the owner of the heavenly voice.

Joy quickly turned to horror.

_A black mask._

Buquet's murderer!

The ground lurched from beneath her as she tried to run, but his arms closed around her like chains. She opened her mouth to scream, but fingers pressed over her lips. Cold fingers. Cold as ice...cold as _death._

She was quickly unconscious.

The shock simply overpowered her nervous system.

Either that, or the chloroform that he held over her face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Ok, guys, this chapter is just taking me too darn long to write, so I'm breaking it up into this little piece and the next one, which should be up in a few days. Sorry for the long wait, and thanks again for all of your wonderful reviews - they mean the world to me!**

**And now, on with the show...**

...

Christine frowned, trying to squeeze her eyes shut against the pulse of white light.

Sleep still threatened to consume her hard won spark of consciousness. Sleep! It would be so easy to plunge into the warm black pool collecting just behind her head...

But there was another flash of light, and Christine's eyes inched open.

At first she saw nothing but gray.

Confused, she torqued her head back, and she found herself looking upside down out a small square window.

A row of streetlamps passed slowly by, one by one.

A minute came and went before Christine thought to wonder where she was.

There was a hum of vibration in the air, filling her ears, saturating her body and her bones.

Occasionally her weight would shift with no input from her at all, gently rocking her from side to side with a rhythm as natural as ocean waves.

So very soothing...

Ah. She was in a car.

Christine watched dreamily as the warm light of the streetlamps grew and faded once more.

She tried to remember.

_Daddy is driving_, she thought vaguely. _We're going home after one of his concerts. _

Those were the only times she could recall having slept in a moving car. She would stay up far later into the night than was good for her, sitting in worshiping silence backstage as her father played the violin for a spellbound audience.

Afterwards, he would carry her in one arm, her head drooping on his shoulder, and his violin case clutched in the other. He would lovingly deposit the two of them in the backseat and drive slowly home...home to the little white room they rented from Mrs. Valerius, the home where everything was safe and right and wonderful...

_...Oh, that's right_, thought Christine. _Daddy is dead._

Her head rolled to one side, and her eyes closed once more.

Somehow, it didn't seem to matter.

...

The masked man's gaze was riveted to the rearview mirror, to the reflection of the girl who was beginning - to his horror - to stir.

He chewed his lip. He had hoped the chloroform would last for the full drive - it seemed ungentlemanly to simply pull over and reapply it now...

It certainly held a whiff of incompetence.

But her breathing soon slowed, and he sighed gratefully as she fell back into her chemical sleep.

He caught his gaze lingering on the girl instead of watching the road, and his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel.

_I can just picture it, _he thought_. You finally get to bring a woman home, and you die in a car crash first!_ _Oh, but it would be typical! So very typical...the Universe is nothing if not consistent, after all... _

Yet his eyes still raked over the figure in the backseat.

He took in each detail with rapt attention. A stray curl fell over her cheek, crossing the bridge of her nose and resting temptingly near the corner of her pink mouth. Of course it _would_ have all of the artful imperfection of a Rembrandt painting, rather than simply looking like a mess...

_Some people have all the luck_, he thought, a fond smile hovering on his lips.

The little curl looked so lonely, and so soft. _So deliciously tactile..._he tried to imagine what it would feel like between his fingers, as he softly tucked it behind her ear, before bending down to kiss her neck...

He felt a shiver in the pit of his stomach and he wrenched his eyes away.

A car crash was becoming more likely every second.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Wow. Even after breaking this chapter down into two sections (see chapter 7) it's still a whopper. I decided to go ahead and post it. I can fuss over wording for weeks (and do) but you guys have been so nice and patient it just feels wrong to keep delaying. So here ya go. Please review, it makes my day :)**

...

There were two lights in a field of black.

Christine had been staring at them for the longest time, trying to understand what they were.

The memory of streetlamps flickered in her mind...were these more? There had been so many...

Yet the two lights before her seemed prettier than streetlamps. The colors were richer...were they amber? Gold, maybe. Oh, they were so beautiful...

Christine smiled and decided that, whatever they were, she loved them.

That was when the lights blinked.

...

Christine lurched forward, a gravelly shriek ripping out of her throat.

There was a man was on his knees beside her. A man with golden eyes.

A man with a _black mask_.

"Steady!" he whispered. "Oh, please, be _calm_..."

Christine tried to right herself on the sofa, but an arc of pain radiated behind her eyes and she clutched her forehead in misery.

"You are not well," muttered her companion. "You must pace yourself! Lie down...you may get up again in a few minutes..."

"But you're going to kill me," Christine said weakly, even as she allowed him to grasp her shoulders and gently push her back onto the cushions.

He clicked his tongue. "Why ever should I hurt you?" he said softly.

"You killed him," she persisted. "You killed Buquet..."

He closed his golden eyes and shook his head.

"I did no such thing."

"But I _saw_ you..."

"You saw nothing of the sort. I was _not_ there, and I did _not_ kill Buquet."

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

"But your _face!"_

His eyes narrowed. "What _about_ it?" he hissed. "You have never seen my face, nor are you ever likely to. You are making wild, unkind assumptions. Now please," he said, his tone growing soft once more, "just try to relax now..."

"I won't!" Christine shrieked. "I won't relax - your mask! The black mask! Take it _off!"_

She lunged forward, scrabbling and clawing at the material covering his face.

He easily caught her wrists in his cold, bony hands and held them down.

"My dear, you must try to be reasonable," said the man, calm even as she thrashed under him, trying to jerk free from his grasp. "You do not like my mask...I understand! Now, you _must_ try to listen carefully...Buquet's killer wears - be still, won't you! - wears a mask to hide his identity, yes? If _I_ had killed Buquet, do you really think I would be announcing that fact - to the only witness, no less! - by _continuing_ to wear my disguise?"

She tried to listen to his words, but the blood was pounding too fiercely in her ears for her to understand.

"Buquet was killed by another man," he whispered. "Another man, in another black mask...surely you must see that?"

"No...No! I don't believe you!" She redoubled her frenzied efforts, to no effect.

"You _must_ believe me, Miss Daae," the man said. "It is the truth!"

She froze.

The way he said her name...

Her mind suddenly flooded with the memory of a voice behind the police room mirror - a warm, velvet voice that had enthralled her senses and seduced her completely.

"You're that man..." she said slowly. "The man I was supposed to meet..."

She became lost in thought, and the man cautiously slid away his fingers and released her.

The movement caught Christine's attention. She stared at her wrists, rubbing them slightly to erase the lingering sensation of cold.

"I don't understand," she said.

"There is nothing _to_ understand," said the man crisply, as he straightened his shirt sleeves (they had gone askew in the scuffle). "We said we'd meet, we met, and now you're here with me, safe and sound."

She turned to him.

"Who _are_ you?" she said.

The man seemed to consider this for a moment before he answered.

"You may call me Erik."

...

In a little while Christine was able to sit up without feeling the world churn under her feet.

She sat hunched on the sofa, holding her throbbing head in her hands, trying to ignore the golden eyes that were locked on her every move.

Erik sat across from her, laid casually back in a red velvet chair. He would have looked the very picture of bored disinterest if it weren't for his fingers, insistently smoothing the nap of the fabric until Christine was amazed he hadn't worn a hole straight through.

He suddenly leaned forward and cleared his throat.

"You must forgive my manners, Miss Daae...I do not often have visitors, and I forget myself. Allow me to get you something to drink? Something soothing...brandy, perhaps?"

He had already left his chair and was walking to the mahogany side board.

"I'd like some tea, actually," said Christine quietly. "If you have any, I mean."

Erik paused. His shoulders became stiff, and his eyes rested fixedly on the cut glass decanter.

"Tea is a stimulant, Miss Daae," said Erik quietly, as he slowly ran one finger around the lip of a glass tumbler. "Brandy is not. You need sleep - I think you should reconsider."

Christine felt her pulse racing. Perhaps it would be simpler...

"No."

"No?"

"No thanks, Erik. I've made up my mind. I want tea. I've always had tea when I was upset." The tension in the room weighed on her, and she smiled nervously. "Do you know Mr. Kahn?"

Erik's head jerked up. "Of course," he said warily.

"I thought so," said Christine, her voice light with false cheerfulness. "It's simply that you remind me so much of him."

A harsh laugh burst out of Erik's lips, and he turned, eyes wide, to face his guest. "I don't see - what could you _possibly_ mean by that?"

"Simply that the two of you are so concerned about what I'm drinking," said Christine innocently. "He was adamant that I add milk and sugar to my coffee. Is there something I'm missing here? Perhaps it's some sort of top secret government protocol-"

"You mustn't pay any attention to Mr. Kahn," said Erik stiffly. "The man is a born fussbudget."

"Oh, but...I didn't mind," said Christine. "Actually, I thought it was sweet of him to take so much trouble."

Erik's eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her cringe.

She fidgeted. "What? Why are you staring at me?"

"Simply that I never thought of 'sweet' and 'Mr. Kahn' as belonging in the same sentence. However," he said slowly, "I will _not_ be placed in the same category as that demanding old bat. Tea it is."

The tension in his body suddenly fell away, and he clasped his hands in front of him, eyes sparkling like a child.

"What tea will you have, Miss Daae? I've amassed quite a variety, you know...Darjeeling? Or perhaps some Oolong? Ah!" he snapped his fingers. "I have it. I've just purchased an exquisite Formosan Bai Hao-"

Christine's head began to spin. "Honestly," she said, "whatever you have a packet of is fine..."

Erik winced. _A packet?_

This girl clearly required some education about the finer things in life.

...

Erik handed her a steaming cup, and Christine took it, eagerly wrapping her fingers around the warm white porcelain.

The smoky orange scent went straight to her head. She inhaled deeply before taking an experimental sip.

Heat curled down her throat and into her stomach, soothing the hard knot of fear that had built up over the past several hours.

She swallowed half of the cup at once.

Her companion had resumed his perch on his chair, his long legs spread out before him, his glinting eyes fixed on the cup of tea in her hands.

"Erik," she asked, after her third sip, "aren't you going to have any tea?"

"No."

Silence filled the room.

Christine suddenly shivered.

She set the cup down and cleared her throat.

"Listen, Erik...I...I appreciate everything that you've done. Really. But..."

"But?"

"I just don't think this arrangement is going to work."

"Why not?"

Christine stared at him curiously. Did he truly not understand?

"I - I don't want my bodyguard to be a man in a mask. It's just...it's just _wrong_."

He raised one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.

"You may, of course, contact Mr. Kahn if you wish."

She sighed, relief washing over her.

"Thanks, Erik. Thank you. Could you give me his number?"

Erik blinked.

"Do what?"

"Give me his number..."

"You mean you don't have it?"

"I - ah, no. Actually, I was hoping you could tell me..."

His eyes bored into her.

"Miss Daae, I am surprised at you! _You_, who have just entered the most _stringent_ protection program in the country, whose life may very well _depend_ on the absolute discretion of your guardians - and you expect me to simply go about, handing out the personal information of my comrades like Easter eggs?"

"I - I just thought that - "

"I am _shocked_ that you could be so cavalier about this, Miss Daae!"

"What? That's not fair at all-"

"It is more than fair," he said smoothly. "Your hypocrisy is truly astounding."

"Hypocrisy!"

"Hush, Miss Daae," said Erik, his eyes flicking to a clock on the wall. "Finish your tea."

"I don't want to finish my tea! I want to - why do you keep looking at that clock?"

"Am I? I wasn't aware of it."

"You are...are you going somewhere? Is something going to happen?"

"Mmm," he said vaguely.

"Because...because let me tell you something, Erik..."

She couldn't quite remember what she was going to say next.

She stared helplessly at her teacup for inspiration.

The knowledge hit her like a block of ice.

"Did you put something in my tea?" she said slowly.

"Of course not," he lied.

Christine stared at her feet, frowning. "You did...you put something in my tea..."

He said nothing. He simply watched as she swayed in her seat, her body once more beyond her control.

Erik rose.

"Time for sleep, I think. Come with me, Miss Daae..."

Christine found herself shuffling forward under Erik's guidance, his cold hand pressed low on her waist.

"You...poisoned me..."

"You exaggerate," he said. "How could Erik ever wish to do you harm?"

A door opened, and before she knew it she was laid on her back, the plush quilt of a bed leaching what remained of her energy.

Her vision flickered. She felt ill.

Erik pulled a blanket over her shoulders, humming softly, his icy fingers grazing her neck. Christine flinched.

Erik shivered.

He strode casually to the open door and turned to face her, eyes glinting in the darkened room.

Even through the mask Christine knew he was smirking.

"I know you are _exhausted_, Miss Daae, but is there anything else you might require before turning in? You have only to name it."

Though the black out was fast approaching, Christine marshaled the last of her senses to reply.

_"Fuck _you," she breathed.

He laughed softly, and shut the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

Erik sank into his chair, the ice barely rattling in his glass of scotch.

He was working up the courage to check his phone.

His fingers absently felt into his pocket and wrapped around the cold hard block. It had been on silent all evening...a good host would _never_ interrupt his guest with a phone call.

Besides which, with Christine around, a man could hardly be interested in anything else.

Ah, well. Better face the music.

Erik reluctantly set down his scotch and snapped open the cell.

He blinked.

Twelve messages. All from Nadir Kahn.

Erik flicked his wrist, noting the time on his watch.

5:23.

No doubt poor old Nadir had just gone to bed, dragging his tired carcass after a miserable, exhausting night...

Perfect.

He dialed.

...

There was a rough, gravelly noise at the other end of the line as a phone was jumbled around. For several seconds Erik only heard the hiss of air, then a low, guttural "'lo?"

"Morning, sunshine!" said Erik.

A string of expletives followed, and Erik pulled the phone from his ear.

"Now now, Daroga," he said cheerfully. "Leave my mother out of this."

"God_ dammit, _Erik! The _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"What do I mean? _Allah!_ He asks what I mean! I've only been trying to contact you for the past _four hours_-"

"-and the first thing you do when I return your calls is complain? You _are_ becoming an old woman."

_"What have you done with Daae?"_

Erik clicked his tongue.

"I'm surprised at you, Daroga. You know better than to use the name of a witness over the phone." He cleared his throat discreetly. "However, if you're referring to the delectable blonde of last night, she is currently..._ahem_...sleeping it off in my bed."

For a moment, the silence was deafening.

"Erik. Erik...what have you done...what did you _do_ to that poor girl-"

"Oh, for _heaven's sake_, man. It was a _joke._ She's sound asleep, safe and unmolested, in my _guest_ room."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, but Erik wasn't sure if it was exasperation or relief.

"You know," said Nadir, "I think the most surprising thing about this scenario is that you have a guest room. You're sick, Erik."

"Nonsense. Never better. _You_, on the other hand, sound like a dying camel."

Nadir groaned.

"I've just come from the hospital. De Chagney's in stable condition. He's going to be fine, no thanks to _you_. What in heaven's name did you do to the boy?"

Erik twirled the scotch in his glass and smirked.

"Why do you insist on blaming me for every little mishap? Just because the boy's blood sugar slips-"

"_Ah ha!_ How did you know it was his blood sugar?"

Erik clicked his tongue. "Well, _really_, Daroga. It was _obvious."_

"Erik," said Nadir slowly, "you can't go around poisoning people that annoy you. It's just...not done. I'm getting tired of covering for you, you know."

"_Poisoning _is putting it rather harshly, I think...anyway, it wasn't because he _annoyed_ me. Well, mostly."

Nadir sighed.

"Just get it off your chest, Erik. Let's hear what bizarre, tortured, circular reasoning you've employed this time."

"I don't think I like the tone you're taking, Daroga. The boy was unacceptable. Even _you_ admit that."

"If you had been paying attention for five seconds, Erik, you would have seen that we were going to remove him from the case. _Sans poison."_

"What, and separate the girl from her little playmate? She looked quite determined about keeping him on, to me. Fiery little vixen, isn't she?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," said Nadir. "Erik, you have to give her back. You're not cleared for this at _any_ level, and beyond that you've probably traumatized her completely."

"I resent that! I prefer to think of myself as something of a ladies' man, you know."

"In what, the _theoretical sense?_ This isn't going to work, Erik!"

"Now you listen to me, Daroga," Erik hissed. "This girl is far too important, and we can't afford any more slip ups. I will be looking after her personally. That is _final_. "

There was a long pause.

"Do you realize," said Nadir in a cracking voice, "how much paperwork I'm going to have to fill out to justify this?"

Erik scoffed.

"Paperwork is for interns, Daroga. Gives them something to do besides making coffee and screwing the boss."

"Enough. I'm going to _sleep_ now, Erik, like a _normal_ person. Just one last thing."

"Only one?"

"If you do anything to jeopardize this investigation, I will personally make myself responsible for ending you. Good _night."_

The crash of the phone nearly burst Erik's ear.


	10. Chapter 10

_Too, too easy! _

The moment he had finished his phone call to Nadir, Erik had left for Christine's apartment. There were things she needed...things of her own that would help ease her into her new...situation.

It had taken mere seconds for Erik to gain entry. A simple slip up the fire escape, a moment to coax open the window. That was it.

He frowned. Christine had been _far_ too exposed. Imagine! Practically _any_ old lunatic could have wandered in off the streets...

How fortunate that she had her Erik, now!

...

Christine rolled onto her side, her head sinking into the pillow like a bird in a nest. Blissful, absolutely blissful...beds really do seem to get more comfortable when you're tired.

Tired. She _had_ been tired.

Why was that exactly?

Her eyes snapped opened and she gasped.

...

Erik's first thought was that the room was monastic.

Christine's apartment was simple, to the point of spare. Perhaps that was to be expected in a room of this size...ninety, perhaps one hundred square feet. Erik felt as if he could reach out in any direction and touch the wall.

How cloistered his little sparrow was!

The furniture was mismatched, obvious thrift store cast-offs, consisting almost entirely of a twin bed, a small wooden dresser, and a laminate folding table.

Erik ran his fingers over the scuffed particleboard dresser and his lip curled in distaste. A slim volume had been placed under one of the feet, presumably to offset an unfortunate tilt. Curious, Erik gently slid the book out with his toe. _The_ _Elements of Style _by Strunk and White.

Erik quickly nudged the book back into place. There was something poisonous here, something lurking among the cheap furniture and plaster walls. Some long forgotten aura that caused his hands to clench and the bile to slowly rise...

_Ah._

The Paris apartment.

Memories suddenly clawed at him. Those dingy, dark little rooms he had shared with his mother...their furniture had been cast offs as well, broken, intended to be fixed but neglected and forgotten. His own bed, a second hand army cot, had tilted to one side, and one long metal spine had jutted down the center and bruised his back when he was foolish enough to sleep on it.

It had been the bane of his childhood that they be surrounded by such unlovely things, but it was a secret he kept to himself. No sense in tormenting his mother, no more than usual, anyway. She cried too much as it was - over him, over her dead husband, over French rudeness, over a burned omelet...

Erik hissed, and he dug his fingernails into his arm until they were wet with blood.

...

Christine eased herself up and gingerly swung her legs over the side the bed. Her bones ached, and her joints creaked in protest. The remains of the poison must still be circulating in her veins.

_Bastard. _

When she put her weight on her feet, she stumbled, her knees seemingly having forgotten how to bend. She landed heavily into the side of a wooden chest of drawers, the edge of the marble top slamming into the bottom of her ribcage.

_Damn him!_

Christine clutched at her side, hot throbs of pain pulsing under her fingers. Still, she hadn't fallen...the splayed fingers of her left hand held a death grip on the polished marble surface and she gritted her teeth, hoisting herself up with her elbow.

The door was right in front of her.

She lurched toward the golden door knob, and it turned easily in her hand. A bark of laughter burst through her lips. It was unlocked!

Christine threw the full force of her weight behind the door and it swung wide.

She was greeted with sparkling sinks, a cavernous tub, and a gleaming porcelain commode.

_A bathroom?_

...

A second, more discriminating glance showed that the thrift store furniture was the only similarity with Erik's childhood home. Where the Paris apartment was the embodiment of neglect, Christine's apartment was clean.

No dust, no dirt, everything put away and tidy. _Organized_.

Erik nodded approvingly. Though he himself did not hold with organization, it was a trait he admired in others.

The furniture, though cheap, was well cared for, polished and free of dust.

The bed was neatly made, a handmade blue quilt folded carefully at the foot. Erik briefly examined the crooked, uneven stitching. No doubt it was a family treasure.

There were no tacky decorations, no day-glo colors or witty posters which seemed so typical of women's decor. Only a handful of simple, well used, and well loved objects.

The room had dignity, if nothing else.

...

Christine stumbled back to the bed, her search of the bathroom turning up nothing more than some very expensive soap.

She flopped heavily onto her stomach, berating herself for the relief she found in the plush satin fabric.

_I could sleep for days..._

No, she thought. That's the chemicals talking. You're stronger than this, Christine. You have to be!

Now roll the hell over and sit up.

...

The surface of the dresser held very few objects. A mirror, which Erik quickly flipped over. A small wooden box, which he peered into curiously. A twenty dollar bill, a pair of silver earrings...and a necklace.

The chain was tarnished in spots, the gold plate flaking off from years of wear. A small crucifix dangled next to a thick wedding band. Cheap, dime store quality stuff - hardly the sort of chic accessory he expected of Christine.

It quickly found its way into his pocket.

...

Christine couldn't quite believe her eyes.

There was a thick white envelope, laying innocently on the glistening marble of the dresser top, patiently waiting for her attention.

She launched herself at it.

_My Dear Miss Daae,_

_I hope you have slept well. I suspect that you may not be feeling very charitable towards me as you read this, but please rest assured that you are in no danger here. You have no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself. You are alone at present - I have gone out to inspect your apartment and to bring back anything you might need. Please make yourself at home until I return. _

_Yours sincerely, _

_Erik. _

Christine shrieked, and tore the paper to shreds.

...

Pride of place on Christine's dresser was a photograph. A man and a girl. The man was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt, his smile broad, his arms wrapped around a ridiculously angelic looking child. The girl was grinning wildly, leaning into her father, her blue eyes sparkling with laughter.

Erik gently touched his fingertip to her rosy cheek, and was almost surprised when it met only cold glass.

...

Hot, wild adrenaline licked through Christine's limbs like fire. She ran to the wall and began beating it with the palm of her hand.

There must be another door!

Christine felt with her fingertips for crevices, seams, anything to indicate an exit from the bleak wood paneled room. She crept along one wall, then the next, then the next. She doubled back, tracing along the baseboards, then again, reaching as high as she could, dusting the tops of the crown molding.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!

...

Erik tore his eyes from the photograph. _Enough. _He was here for a reason. Might as well make a start.

Erik carefully set his leather satchel on the bed, zipping it open in preparation for the clothes.

A feral grin suddenly broke over his mouth.

Now, he thought, where would Christine keep her underwear...

...

She was going to die. She sat rocking on the bed, laughing and crying all at once. There was no door, and she was going to die here, alone, at the hands of a masked, lunatic murderer.

There was nothing she could do to stop it.


	11. Chapter 11

Erik crept over the threshold, treading softly on the pads of his feet. He glanced cautiously around the corner, muscles tensed, as if he was a stranger in his own home.

For some reason, he was feeling rather shy.

For all that, though, the front entry was deserted. The living room beyond was just as empty. As was the library, the music room, the kitchen...

Erik frowned as he set the bulging leather satchel down onto the sofa, the very one where Christine had been so artfully arranged the previous evening.

_Where was she?_

...

Christine was holding her legs clutched to her chest, and as a result her jeans had become slightly damp at the knees.

She had never suspected that she could be such a prolific crier - it was astounding what stress could do to a grown woman. Still, the tears had stopped.

There were simply none left.

She stared at the wall, eyes swollen, mouth slack, and was thinking about going back to sleep. If she _was_ to spend the rest of eternity in an exitless room, there was no reason to start off conscious.

She gave one last, longing glance at the unyielding wooden panels.

"Open sesame," she whispered sadly.

Three sharp taps sounded on the wall.

"Miss Daae?" said a warm, rich voice. "Miss Daae, are you still in here?"

...

_"Oh!"_

A crack had appeared in the wall, no more.

Christine did not need more.

She hurtled through the doorway, smacking audibly into the wood and pushing the space open with sheer momentum.

She fell to her knees on the floor of the living room. She was laughing and crying all at once, balling the carpet in her hands.

"There was no door!" she panted between hysterical gasps. "There was no door there a minute ago! I - I thought I was going to _die_..."

Erik stared at her blankly.

Curious, he studied the door in question.

And then he burst out laughing.

...

Christine felt anger bubble like acid in her veins.

"What," she growled, "is so funny?"

"Well," said Erik, holding the door open and alternately examining each side, "it is a trick door! Perfectly normal from one side, but made to be invisible on the other. I designed it myself...just to see if I could, you know. "

Christine's fingers curled into the carpet as she counted to ten, and the air hissed with each sharp inhale through her nose.

"A trick door."

"Yes," said Erik lightly. "I'm surprised...I had thought this particular example was rather clumsily done. You truly did not see the crevice? Hm! How satisfying..."

Erik's eyes glowed with pleasure, and he turned to Christine with a smile.

It was only then that he realized she was trembling with rage.

"Miss Daae," he said quietly, his shoulders seizing up. "Oh, Miss Daae...forgive me! You _must_ believe me that it was not deliberate. I - simply forgot about that door."

"You forgot?" she whispered.

"I made it so long ago...and I never go in there, not now."

"You forgot that there was no door on the other side?"

Erik stared at the floor, shifting slightly from foot to foot.

"It was just...one of my jokes."

She snapped.

Christine lunged at him, clawing at the lapels of his jacket, her face snarling and crimson with hate.

"One of your _jokes?_ What kind of a joke is _that? _It is as funny as poisoning people? Or drugging their tea? Or maybe," she hissed, "wearing masks like every goddamn day is Halloween? _These_ are the jokes you think are funny? You sick, twisted..._freak!"_

In one smooth, dramatic gesture, Christine shoved him away, ran to her room, and slammed the door shut with apocalyptic finality.

Five seconds later, Erik heard the faintest tap against the wall.

"Erik?" she squeaked, "how do I get out?"

Erik felt his fingers clenching in his palms. "Well, _really_, Miss Daae..."

"Please, Erik," she said, her voice sweet and sad and humble. "Please, don't leave me in here. I - I can't bear it..."

Erik sighed, his bruised ego weighing against his keen sense of chivalry.

In the end, chivalry won. He always did have a weakness for blondes.

Christine stood near the door as he entered, apparently finding something remarkably interesting on the toe of her shoe.

"You must look up, my dear," Erik said. "To open from this side, you simply press against this knot in the wood. Do you see? No, not that one, an inch higher...there. It couldn't be simpler, could it not?"

Christine nodded quickly, and she started to close the door against him.

"Before you resume your isolation," said Erik quietly, "I have brought something for you."

He quickly shoved the satchel into her hands, and she looked down at it, bewildered.

Erik clicked his tongue.

"Did you not read my note?" he said. "I went to your apartment to get your things. You will be staying with me for quite some time, and I have brought everything that seemed important. Look through it - I will go back for whatever you wish."

Christine could only stare at him, blushing with embarrassment and confusion.

Erik cleared his throat.

"Anyway. It is," he flicked a glance at his watch, "two in the afternoon. Please, get changed, freshen up - there is a bathroom there on your right - and let us have lunch in, say, half an hour? I will see you then."

He swiftly shut the door.

...

Christine sat on the edge of the bed, fuming.

Erik was a cruel, callous, manipulative, lying bastard.

He was probably also a murderer, for all of his earnest talk of being her bodyguard. Did he think she was born yesterday?

After all, how many masked men does a girl meet in one night?

Christine jerked the satchel onto the bed, yanking at the zipper with such violence that it got stuck. It only opened again after five minutes of savage fumbling, and she viciously pulled open the bag.

Her breath suddenly caught in her throat.

Her blue quilt lay neatly folded on top, the quilt that was the one possession her mother had brought from Sweden.

Christine traced her fingertips over the fabric, dumbstruck by its presence in such a strange, foreign situation.

She began to lift it out, but it was heavy. She gently pressed onto the surface, and she realized that there was something solid in the center.

With the utmost care, she unfolded the fabric.

She could only look in awe as she unwrapped the photograph of herself and her father.

Christine held the frame in her hands, the object so familiar after so many years of living on her dresser.

The tears she thought were gone suddenly began anew.

...

After a lengthy inner debate, Christine had decided to place the photograph on the dresser. Though part of her didn't want to give this hellhole the honor of the picture's presence, a larger part of her felt that she needed the company.

She had briefly toyed with arranging the blue quilt on the bed, but against the rich, peach colored satin, the effect was jarring, and oddly comical.

The quilt was now residing in a drawer.

Christine was hanging her clothes, one by one, in the massive cherrywood armoire. She had toyed with the idea of leaving them in the satchel, in case an opportunity arose for a quick getaway. However, she suspected that Erik would demand the bag be returned long before she had such a chance.

She sighed.

Only a few more shirts to go. He had managed to pack all of them, not because of any particular skill on his part, but simply because she had so few.

Still...it was thoughtful of him to include the picture.

Perhaps...perhaps he wasn't all bad...

But then she saw it.

There, lovingly tucked and arranged at the bottom...

Her shriek reverberated through the entire house.

_"You went through my underwear?"_


	12. Chapter 12

**Epilepsy be damned. I'M BACK.**

**...**

2:30 came and went. As did 3:00, 4:00, and 5:00.

Christine was curled up on the bed, her face flushing every time she thought of that...that..._man's_ hands on her undergarments! They were nothing to write home about, just simple nude colored briefs and bras, but the very idea of those long, white fingers curling about them in their spidery dance...it just..._gahhhh! _She shivered just _remembering_ his fingers' cold, bony presence on her skin. Now they were on her shirts, her pants, _everything!_ There was absolutely no way she could face him now.

Yes. That was it. She would never leave the room. She would starve to death. Perfectly reasonable plan.

She stared for a moment at her pouching midsection and all too generous hips. _Perhaps...perhaps starving would even be good for me_, she thought sadly.

And so she sat.

...

Erik found himself growing increasingly restless. He had prepared a simple chicken and noodle soup - warming, comforting, easily digestible for a little lost lamb - and, not knowing her taste in spices, had added only the tiniest pinch of saffron. The soup was now cold and neglected on the stove top, as the time passed with all of the slowness of eternity.

She was not coming out of her room. Perhaps that was to be expected...she had sounded a bit ruffled by her discovery. He found himself having to suppress a grin as he remembered the silky material caressing his fingertips...he shuddered. R_eally, Erik! You are a gentleman! What would you do to another man who had such thoughts? Suppose that pouf Raoul was -_ The remembrance of said pouf was enough to turn his lips into a snarl.

That handsome little brat. Christine liked _him_...what _idiots_ women could be.

He tore through his abode, noting his bachelor's arrangements with distaste. The piano covered with papers. Books littered over every surface, their spines bent or pages folded. Or, Good Lord, even his _dressing gown_ was casually draped over the sofa.

_She probably didn't notice it last night_, he considered. And then he shrugged. _Ah well, if she did, she has had her revenge. _He felt another ungentlemanly grin creep up the corner of his twisted mouth. Somehow, the mutual disclosure of underwear was not...unappealing.

...

Christine felt her stomach begin to rumble_. No! Just think of his mask! His hands! The drugs, for God's sake! Think of what he's done to you! And look at yourself! The last thing you need is food, you damned hippo._

She suddenly remembered the marble bathtub. _A bath, _she pondered._ That's what hippos do best. _She took an experimental sniff of her armpit_. Ugh! I could use a nice hot bath right now...perhaps I could-_

_-what if he has cameras in there? Oh God..._

...

Erik was anxiously shoving books and papers about, trying to make the place look less like a rat's nest. The surface clutter was quickly cleared, and he found himself dusting obscure corners of the rooms, or the wheels of the massive grand piano. It occurred to him that, just maybe, he was working out some nerves of his own.

_I don't care, _he thought._ I'll do what I like in my own house! _Whereupon he proceeded to dust the tops of the books on his bookshelf, wondering vaguely if anybody else ever did that.


	13. Chapter 13

"Ah! She emerges."

And so she had. In a mixture of boredom and desperation, Christine had finally taken a bath, the water wrapping around her like a warm blanket. Or it could have been the towel had she draped over her head, just in case there _were_ secret cameras.

She shuffled out of her room, her eyes barely stealing a glance at Erik before fixing themselves firmly on the floor.

Erik was spread on the couch, his feet resting on the polished coffee table. In his lap he held a violin, one hand wrapped delicately around the neck, the other tracing circles of polish over the body. The circles made the body glitter and...perhaps...obscured any reflection that gazed upon it.

Erik lifted his eyes towards his guest.

"I see that you have refreshed yourself - excellent. My home is yours, as long as you will be staying here. Yet you seemed so determined to barricade yourself...why the change of heart?"

Christine still looked at the floor, her nails digging into the palms of her hands.

Erik sighed.

"I am afraid it cannot be _my_ company you seek," he said. "You have made your feelings on the matter _explicitly_ clear. There must be some other reason."

Slowly, slowly he raised himself from the couch.

"You do not lack for water," he mused. "I am sure you are aware of the carafe on your side table. The, er, _facilities_ are known to you. The steam does bring a lovely glow to your cheeks, if one may say."

Christine bit her lip.

"You do not lack for clothing, for I brought it myself," he said, circling her thoughtfully. "Hm, hm, hm...whatever can it be?"

She bit her lip harder, blushing furiously.

"Ah, I believe I have it..." he whispered.

Christine felt her spine dance as he bent low to her ear.

"The reason you are here," he breathed, "is..._hunger_...

"OK, OK! JESUS CHRIST!" shouted Christine. "Yes, I'm hungry! Now stop with the fucking innuendos! I just want to eat something!_ God!_"

Erik laughed softly.

"Of course, my dear. As it happens, I have prepared a meal already. If you would follow me..."

Christine scowled as she followed, shoulders hunched and arms folded across her chest.

"Such an innocent girl as you," Erik mused. "I cannot think _why_ you suspect me of innuendo..."

Behind him, Christine stuck out her tongue.

...

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop _staring_ at me. It's freaking me out."

Erik had warmed the soup for Christine. She ate petulantly, annoyed that the soup was the most wonderful she had eaten in her life.

"I am not staring, Miss Daae. I am merely sitting here."

"Yeah, well...you're not eating. You're just watching me."

"A good host never abandons his guest, my dear. Rule number one in the etiquette book, I believe."

"A good host doesn't just stare, either. I think that's rule number one in the 'How to be fucking normal' book."

Erik chuckled.

"Have it your way then, my dear. Finish your supper, and leave the dishes to me. I shall return to the main room and finish my task."

He strode away, Christine staring at his retreating back and wondering how anyone could be so skinny.

She finished her soup. With a furtive glance, she licked the bowl clean. The fragrant broth was simply too good to waste. She toyed with the idea of leaving her dishes on the table, but her inbred good manners took over. She took the bowl and spoon to the sink and washed them carefully, then, unaware of their proper place, left them on the counter. She took one last look around the warm, comfortable room, and with a deep breath, opened the door.

Erik was continuing to polish the violin, his movements ever so slow on the glimmering brown body.

Christine cleared her throat.

"I...er, well...thank you, Erik. For dinner. It was nice."

He did not look or speak.

"I guess I'll just...just go back to my room now -"

"Tell me, Miss Daae," he asked lightly. "Do you have a favorite instrument?"

She blinked. "A favorite instrument? I...huh?"

He held the violin to his eyes and inspected it closely. "Just as I said, a favorite instrument. The tone of your voice is lovely, and I suspect that you sing delightfully. But is that all of your musical knowledge?"

"I, well...I can find my way around a piano, I suppose. It's useful for a singer."

"I agree entirely. But you did not answer my question. Please, sit."

She cautiously approached a soft chair, and sunk into it. It felt like she was being eaten by a cloud.

"I...I hardly know what to say. A good orchestra as a whole is a priceless entity, and each section serves to support the other..."

"Once more you are correct. But your eyes keep glancing to the side...you are hiding something."

"I'm not...hiding anything, really. It's just a little hard to talk about. I...I love the violin."

Erik smiled behind his mask, and leaned his chin upon his hand.

"Particular reasons?"

"Well...it's always seemed to me that the violin is the most expressive. It seems closer to the human voice than any other instrument."

Erik thought this over. "The thought is debatable, yet I understand your viewpoint. Yet this is hardly difficult to discuss, my dear. What is it you do not wish to say?"

She hung her head, and after a time, she spoke.

"My father played the violin," she said, hardly more than a whisper.

Erik said nothing, but merely gazed at her.

"He...he was a genius. He could make the violin sing, you know, and he would play such happy music for me. I hardly remember my mother...she died in a car accident when I was very young. But my father always did his best to make me happy."

Still Erik said nothing, but he pursed his lips in thought.

"It seemed like each day he climbed higher. More and more people recognized his talent...he was launching like a rocket. I know he would have been a household name if only..."

Her voice tapered off.

Erik tapped his chin. "I do not know why I didn't make the connection before. Tell me, was your father Gustav Daae?"

She glanced up quickly, a small light shining in her eyes.

"You've heard of him, then?"

"I have not only heard of him, I have _heard_ him. The New York Philharmonic. Saint Saens, Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso."

Christine's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You have quite a memory."

"Mm," he replied.

For a moment there was silence.

"Miss Daae...I must be honest. I am a fierce critic. My friends would call me the ultimate musical snob, if I had any. I am _not_ impressed easily."

Christine's smile faded, bracing herself for what might come.

"Your father...Gustav Daae. He...well, all I can say is that you are right. The genius flowed through him like wine. He was touched by the muse, as very few technical masters are. It is...catastrophic that the world lost him so early. And...I can see that you loved him dearly."

Indeed, silent tears were making their way down Christine's cheeks.

"There now," he said. "I did not mean to bring up unpleasant topics. But perhaps you can help me...as the daughter of such an exquisite musician, you must know something about violins. Tell me, does this look properly polished to you?"

It was a kind escape, and Christine took it gratefully.

She lifted herself from the chair and walked to where the violin was perched upon a cushion. She held it carefully, examining the body with cool precision.

"I've not often seen such an unusual method of polishing, Erik. It is lovely."

"Thank you."

Curious, she tilted the violin, peering through the f-holes to read the maker's mark.

_"Holy-"_

She shrieked, nearly dropping the violin.

"A STRAD? YOU HAVE A STRAD? AND YOU GAVE IT TO ME TO HOLD? ARE YOU CRAZY?" She set the violin down on the pillow, as warily as if it had been a wild panther. She clutched at her heart and gulped air down her lungs.

Erick took the instrument and plucked lazily at it's strings.

"How can you just...just _hold _it? How are you not _terrified_ that you'll ruin it?"

"There is very little that I fear now in the world, my dear. And I am ashamed that a musician's daughter could ask such a question. You forget that an instrument is not an _object_, it is a _person_. Would you suggest that a Stradivarius should be kept behind glass, like a prison cell? It longs to be used, to be stroked...to sing. It is it's destiny and it's love. Would you have it any other way?"

Christine's eyes misted.

"No," she said. "No. You are right."

Erik bent to put the violin back in it's case.

_"Wait!"_

"Yes, Miss Daae?"

Christine had said it without thinking. Her emotions simply welled up and forbid the thing to be housed.

"I...Erik. I...will be going to bed soon, but...would you , before you put it away, that is...would you play me something?"

He smiled.

"What do you wish for?"

...

Christine was blissfully wrapped in Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto No. 1. It had been one of her favorites as a child, emotional and dreamy. She always felt that she was being carried away to a fairy castle in the clouds...she sunk deeper into her chair.

Erik gently finished the first movement, and glance at his companion.

Her head was nodding, a smile playing on her lips.

He bent over her, carefully whispering in her ear.

"Time for sleep, Miss Daae. Let me help you up...you may retire on your own steam, this time."

In her half sleep, Christine raised from the chair, and gave Erik a beaming smile, her eyes glittering with starlight. Yet as her mind cleared, her smile faded and her eyes clouded over once more.

She walked quickly to her door, and closed it firmly behind her.

...

**You can find Saint Saens Introduction and Rondo here: watch?v=NFxcMmMDAsk&list=FLjMcUXjdyjzEfBgFVGAGYSw&index=17**

**The Tchaikovsky is here: watch?v=geFXEdMuXl0&list=FLjMcUXjdyjzEfBgFVGAGYSw&index=21**

**Please listen, it really adds to the mood of this chapter :)**


	14. Chapter 14

Raoul was incessantly rubbing his fingers over the grooved wooden knob that capped the arm of his chair. It was an exceedingly expensive chair, constructed of the highest quality mahogany and the most buttery of all leathers. Yet still he twitched and squirmed in the seat. Others probably did as well.

He wondered if Philippe had chosen it for that purpose.

It was now twenty minutes since the time of his supposed "meeting" with his older brother. The elder Chagny was one of the giants of the secret service, a man whose shoes were licked clean by some of the wealthiest, most elite politicians the world over.

He scared Raoul to death.

The doorknob turned, and Raoul bolted upright, his papers crackling in his hand.

Philippe was not impressive to look at. Underneath his rigid posture, he was relatively short at 5'5." His crisply tailored suits did a stunning job of skimming over his soft belly, but it was not quite enough. His tight jaw did not seem to match his slightly round cheeks.

Yet none of that mattered when he pinned you down with his hard, black eyes.

"Ah," Raoul spoke, "Philippe! How...how are you doing this morn-"

Philippe silenced him with a glance.

Raoul swallowed hard and tried again.

"I, er, I received your email. That's...that's why I'm here. Obviously." He smiled a goofy grin. It was not returned.

Philippe sunk into the cushioned leather chair behind his desk. He stroked his chin, teeth chewing hard on his thin red lips.

"I'm, I'm sorry that I disappointed you, Philippe. I know it was quite a high profile assignment, and I know that you were responsible for me getting the chance for it. Everything just...I don't know! It just fell apart..."

Philippe slammed his hand on the desk, and Raoul flinched.

"_What_," Philippe breathed, "_happened?"_

"It wasn't my fault!" Raoul squealed. "I got sick! I had to go to the emergency room-"

Philippe growled.

Raoul put on his bravest face. "I'm...I'm sorry you don't like it, Philippe, but...but I can't change the truth! It's out of my hands now - Mr. Kahn has already approved a personnel change - and, and...I'm not sure what else you want me to say!"

Philippe held his head in his hands, his fingers intertwined through the watery blond strands of his hair.

Raoul swallowed hard, and spoke in a wary whisper.

"Philippe," he said, "Philippe...I know you're...upset. I fumbled a wonderful chance that you handed to me on a platter. But...but I went to the _emergency room_, Philippe...it was an un_heard_ of drop in blood sugar. I might have _died_ if it was any lower. I thought...I thought that at least you might, well...might have come to see me..."

Philippe stared, irony pouring from his gaze.

"Philippe," Raoul tried, "Philippe! I'm your brother...just...just speak to me!"

That did it. Philippe snapped, shooting out of his chair and slamming his desk with his fist. His face was a deadly shade of maroon, a hideous blue vein throbbing near his forehead.

"GET...OUT!" He roared. "GET THE F-F-FUCKCK OUT OF HHERE, YOU GOD-D-DAMN P-P-POOF!"

Raoul grabbed his papers and bolted.

...

Raoul was slumped in the shade of a green canopy, bemoaning his fate, his brother, and life in general.

"Hey, bro, you okay?"

He smiled. Good old Gerard. Him and Emmy, his twin sister, were the best friends he had ever had, or at least since prep school. They were both slim and slick, blessed with impossibly thick black hair, and graced with just the right amount of tan.

"Raoul, sweetie, you look like someone just ran over your cat...what happened?" Emmy squeaked.

He sighed and sat upright. "Just another meeting with Philippe. He doesn't much like the way I'm handling myself on the job."

Gerard snorted. "Old Philippe the infallible, eh? God, I hate the way he just digs into everyone's busi-"

"Shut _up_, Gerard," piped Emmy. "You're just making things worse." Emmy held Raoul's hand. "I'm sorry, Raoul. I know he can be a hard ass. Want to go to the theatre with us later? We're going to see Hairspray..."

Raoul laughed. "Thanks, Emmy...but probably not. I'm going to take it easy today. This is nothing that a massage and a steam bath won't cure. Anyway, we were meeting here for coffee, remember? Let's go inside before they run out."

Emmy giggled as Raoul gave her a deep, old-fashioned bow. She clip-clopped in front of him as they walked inside, perched on those insane stiletto heels that always reminded Raoul of horse hooves. She gave Gerard a playful punch on his well toned shoulder.

Raoul grinned. These two could always make him happy. Maybe he should go to the theatre with them...either way, they would always be his friends.

"Ooooh, look guys!" Emmy chirped. "Pumpkin lattes!"


End file.
